Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (28 page)

“Not much of a getaway, there, Miss Priss.” Tim easily stepped over the fence, then stooped to gently tug the material free.

“Thank you.” She hopped down. The wreath she’d so playfully woven drooped lower over one side of her brow.

Tim’s mouth quirked in an amused grin. “Your, uh, crown is slipping, princess.”

She snatched it off. “I’m not a princess.”

His amusement evaporated. “There’s nothing regal in the least about you prancing off. You set me back on this morning’s work.”

“I never asked you to search for me!”

He strode toward Hombre, effortlessly mounted, and tipped his hat. “Fine. Then you can wander on home now.”

“But my shoes!”

“Get home and cool your heels in the house. If you try this stunt again, I’ll personally tie a bell around you like I do a wayward cow.”

“A cow!”

“I can’t be bothered with your fits and pranks.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion!”

“And I didn’t ask for your presence,” he shot back. He kneed his mount. “I have important things to do. You get on home.”

The whole day turned into one continuous headache. One of the new cowboys decided to settle an argument with his fists. Tim broke up the fight and sent that man packing. Richardson showed up a day early for the stud bull. Velma’s clothesline inexplicably fell over and had to be repaired. She grumbled the whole while about having to rinse all those dusty clothes again.

Come suppertime, Tim headed up the porch steps. He halted and stared at Sydney’s lap. “What are you doing with those?”

“Hmm? Oh. I helped Velma with the laundry today. I noticed your shirts required some mending. It seems the least I could do.”

“You don’t need to bother.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Mr. Creighton. I’ve been doing embroidery, so whenever a color that matched your shirt was on my needle, I whipped up a few stitches. I’m almost done.”

Sydney handed him a stack of four neatly folded shirts. “They’ll last you a short while. As soon as I have a few more garments completed, I’d be happy to make you a couple of shirts. I think something in a gray plaid would suit you nicely.”

His wife Louisa had loved to sit in the sunshine and sew. He remembered the last thing she’d made for him: a gray shirt. He’d prized that shirt, worn it, and told himself it was like having her arms around him—but it wasn’t. Pain slashed through him.

Tim scowled. His blue shirt lay on the swing next to Sydney’s hip. Other than the ones he now held, the only other shirt he owned was on his back. He didn’t need some highbrow English girl pointing out that his clothes were in tatters. The tip of her finger traced a penny-sized hole in the elbow of the last shirt. For just a moment, the corners of her mouth turned down disapprovingly, then they crooked back up into a smile.

She pities me
. His temper soared. “So now that you’re back in skirts, you think you can put on airs and find fault with us commoners? I work hard, and my clothes show it; but I’m not ashamed. I’d choose work over vanity any day.”

Sydney’s smile melted into a look of bewildered hurt. She blinked, then stabbed her needle into the embroidery hoop and set it aside. Without another word, she brushed past him and went into the house.

Tim stood on the porch and smacked his hand on his thigh in acute frustration. Dust swirled around from that action. The moment she got that wounded look, he realized he’d mistaken her motive. He was a coarse, big man, and she was a refined slip of a woman. How did she manage to get his goat? Just as bad, why was he being so rude to her?

His shirts needed mending. He’d noticed it from time to time, but he was as hopeless with a needle as the Richardson girls were at a dance. The fact of the matter was, men walked around with their clothes in fairly sad shape most of the time. Ranching ruined clothes. Men wore their garments until they plain fell apart. It was just the way of things.

Tim noted that she’d stitched small sprigs of forget-menots in the center of the embroidery hoop. It was charming. Like her. She’d been humming as he came up—atonal, berserk bee sounds that amounted to a poor excuse for music—but she hadn’t cared. She’d been happy. It had been sweet, coming home to that bit of cheer after a long, hot, dirty day. In a few terse, harsh sentences, he’d silenced that perky little woman and made her leave her flowers behind. The embroidery hoop with its still needle accused him of cruelty.

Velma thumped a heaping plate in front of Tim that night and snapped, “Go on ahead and eat up. Lady Sydney seems to have lost her appetite. No use in good food going to waste.”

“Is she sick?”

“Sick of you. Doggone it, Tim! That little gal went and fixed all of your sorry old shirts without giving it a second thought. She mended my dishcloth, too. I had to haul her down from a chair because she climbed up on it so she could tack a ring on the parlor curtains that was pulling loose. You’re spouting off words to make it look like she’s put herself on some fancy pedestal and stands there jeerin’ at us common folks.”

“No one asked her to act like some kind of nest-building housewife!”

Planting her hands on her hips, Velma shot back, “You’d fault her if she sat around and twiddled her thumbs. The girl can’t win no matter what she does.”

“Can’t a man eat in peace around here?”

“I don’t see why not, but then again, I don’t know why a woman can’t sew in peace, either.”

Tim glowered at her. She scowled right back. “Our gal’s feet are sore. I don’t know what possessed you to make her walk back all that way all on her own.”

“She wandered out there. There’s no reason she couldn’t come back under her own steam.”

Tapping her toe, Velma glowered at him. “She had stockings and buttoned-up boots on the way out. No stockings and loose boots are a recipe for a crop of blisters that’d make you wince, and she’s got ’em.”

“Soak ’em and use a little salve. They’ll be fine in a day or so.”

“We already did.” Velma sniffed. “I’ve got me a bad feelin’ ’bout her.”

“She’ll come down to eat when she’s good and ready. You’re busy enough without having to fetch and carry for her.”

“She wants to go to town tomorrow—checking into finding herself a place to go.”

Tim nodded sagely. “Fine. That way, we’ll have somewhere all lined up when Fuller finally gets home.”

In the middle of the night, Tim woke up. He had a roaring case of indigestion. It had to be from Velma’s lousy meal; for the first time Velma’s pot roast had been tough and stringy, and the vegetables were undercooked. He wouldn’t give any credence to his conscience suggesting that maybe he felt a bit guilty over the way he’d treated Lady Sydney. Men didn’t let their guts knot up over a woman’s tender feelings. He decided a glass of milk might help, so he padded downstairs.

An arc of light let him know someone was in the kitchen. Still wearing every last piece of proper day clothing, Sydney sat at the table, a fancy teacup in her hand.

Tim nodded his greeting and walked past her, hoping to smooth the tension between them. “Velma hardly ever bakes treats. I’ve got a powerful sweet tooth, so when she does, I gobble up every last crumb. Want a few cookies or some custard?”

“No, thank you. The tea is sufficient.”

“Tea isn’t gonna keep your slats apart.” He tested the top of the stove and jerked back his finger. “The hens are laying well, and the stove’s still hot. You could fry yourself a couple of eggs to hold you till morning.”

“I’m not overly hungry.” She finished her tea and went to the sink to rinse out the cup.

“Sit back down and talk a bit.” He motioned toward the custard and cookies. “Eat too.”

Folding her arms across her ribs, Sydney shook her head. “Mr. Creighton, we’d do best to avoid one another’s company unless we have specific reason for conversation.”

“Awww, c’mon! My mouth got the best of me earlier. I admit it. You got your feelings hurt, but that doesn’t mean that you have to dash off and starve yourself.”

“I’m scarcely in danger of starving.”

“But you ran off like a kitten that some kid squeezed too tight.”

Her eyes coasted across his broad shoulders and quickly scaled his height from floor to hairline. Staring directly into his eyes, she rasped, “Your analogy was exceptionally appropriate.”

Raking his hand through his rumpled hair, Tim sighed. “Listen, Fuller’s bound to be getting home soon. It’ll be different with him here. He’s good at handling people. He’ll manage this situation far better than we are. I trust the man.”

“Then at least one of us is looking forward to his appearance.”

“Is that what this is all about? You’re scared of him giving you the boot, so you’re worrying yourself sick in the meantime?”

She shot him an icy look. “Mr. Creighton, I’ve been far from the wilting-and-hysterical type. The mere thought that I’d stoop to such an intentional manipulation is hardly flattering, and I assure you, it’s not in the least bit accurate.”

“I think you’re only half right. That’s precisely what’s going on.” He held up a hand as she made a sound of protest. “You’re unaware you’re doing it.”

“There are so many flaws in that logic, it is impossible to address them all. Do you think I’d intentionally make myself ill when there’s every likelihood that my uncle will send me away? I’ve already determined to find a suitable situation for myself. No one would engage me if I were sickly.”

“You?” He let out a rough bark of a laugh. “Work?”

Sydney didn’t laugh. The lantern illuminated the temper sparking in her eyes. “Like it or not, Mr. Creighton, you cannot deny that I worked—and hard—for three weeks. I’m not about to suddenly languish.”

She was right. He couldn’t deny that she’d done whatever tasks he’d put before her.
But only because of her manipulating scheme
. He stared at her. “What would you do?”

“America is the land of opportunity. Education is valuable. A place at a school is a strong possibility. I’m skilled with a needle, and my mathematical abilities would allow me to work in any shop or bank.” Her chin came up in defiance, but her voice faltered. “I’ll do whatever I need to.”

Tim pounded on the tabletop in frustration. “I didn’t want to have to shepherd some greenhorn kid for a week, and I certainly didn’t plan on having to guide the prancing fop who arrived. That was bad enough, but I never would have consented to playing nursemaid to a little English miss who wears her feelings on her sleeve!”

Sydney sat there for a long moment. Her tone went icy. “Now you tell me, Mr. Creighton, just who is venting emotions?”

His face went hot, but his stare scorched her.

Rising from her seat with all of the elegance of a queen from her throne, Sydney spoke in an irritatingly well-modulated tone, “Furthermore, I’m far beyond the age to require the services of a nursemaid. That being revealed, I bid you a good night.”

“I agreed to watch Fuller’s nephew for one stinking week.”

“And you’ve had to endure my undesirable company for nearly a month.” Sydney turned around by the door. “Don’t feel too put out, Mr. Creighton. If your actions and attitude are any hint as to how my uncle will conduct himself, you can safely plan on being rid of me forthwith.”

“Now, hang on a minute here—”

“Please, Mr. Creighton, spare me any platitudes or defensive commentaries. The simple fact of the matter is, I’m not wanted here. I do happen to possess enough pride to insist upon living where I’m accepted. That, obviously, is not the case here. In the morning, I’ll go to town and send out inquiries regarding a suitable situation for myself.” She slipped away and left him to sit in a pool of lantern light.

Tim shoved the cookies and custard away from himself. She’d ruined his appetite for good food.

The next day, Sydney went to town. Velma accompanied her, and they returned with two newspapers and a short list of boarding schools for young ladies. Sydney sat down at Fuller’s desk. Miss Stern’s Boarding School clear out in California and Trenwith’s Anglican Home for Orphaned Young Ladies in Chicago . . . just the names gave her the shivers. Carefully sorting through the possibilities, she ruled some out immediately, then set herself to writing.

As Velma made dinner, Sydney wrote a letter of inquiry to a ranch in Kansas. As the last few lines of ink dried, she began another inquiry to a place in the Dakotas. St. Mary’s Academy was in Oklahoma. All of her years of stodgy upbringing rescued her. In her heart of hearts, she wanted to stay here, but she was a lady, and a lady didn’t stay where she was unwelcome. She refused to demean herself by begging to be kept on—even if Tim and Fuller both agreed, she’d be there on sufferance, and pride demanded she not live under such circumstances.

The very thought of leaving made her want to weep like a baby. That realization hit her hard. She’d come here planning to return to England. Now the only thing she wanted was to belong here. Even if she couldn’t stay at Forsaken, she wouldn’t go back to England. The freedom and opportunities here offered her far more latitude than she’d ever enjoy back home.

Sydney clamped her lips together, blinked a few times, and continued on. A show of emotion simply wouldn’t do.

“Sydney, dinner is on the table,” Velma stated from the doorway.